


Flames in the Sky

by mydogwatson



Series: Postcard Tales II [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1941, AU, First Meeting, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 20:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7330099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two men meet on the roof of St. Barts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flames in the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of the postcard tales that I wish could be longer. Had fun with it, but, as I have said before, rules are rules.
> 
> Well, mostly. A couple of days after I wrote this, a title turned up that I thought might make a good little sequel. So if you enjoyed this, look for that.

John Watson plopped the metal helmet onto his head before stepping out onto the roof of St. Bartholomew’s hospital. He told himself that it would be ridiculous to feel at all nostalgic about the fact that this was the first night of his last week on fire watch duty. There was certainly nothing sentimental about watching bombs fall on London every night. And possibly what he was feeling was nothing more than apprehension about what would be coming next.

Certainly, he had no doubts about his medical skills. But it was one thing to be practicing those skills in the tidy and organised wards at Barts and quite another to be trying to mend broken bodies on the battlefield. Was he ready for that?

_Buck up, Watson,_ he told himself severely. _Not the time to lose your nerve._

Probably plenty of opportunities for that to happen later.

He propped himself against a small pile of sandbags and took a swallow of the lukewarm tea in his tin mug. Would there be tea where he was going?

“You’re looking forward to it, aren’t you?” an unexpected and unfamiliar voice said from the shadows.

John barely saved his tea from ending up as a puddle on the floor and then tried to calm his racing heart. “Who the bloody hell--?”

A tall figure in a long dark overcoat stepped out of the blackness into the pale moonlight. “Sorry, didn’t intend to startle you,” the stranger said, sounding entirely unrepentant. 

John set the mug down onto the sandbags and crossed his arms as he glared. “Thought I was meant to be on duty alone up here tonight,” he said in his firmest ‘I am the surgeon and the operating theatre is my domain’ voice. “So why are you here?”

A pale hand waved negligently. “Don’t worry, doctor, I am not attempting to usurp your authority. I am not a ‘fire watcher.’ You are free to carry on saving London.”

John wondered fleetingly if that were disdain he heard in the voice, but decided not to pursue the issue. “In that case, who are you and what are you doing up here?” Another thought popped into his mind. “And how do you know I’m a doctor?”

“Oh, please,” was the only response to that. “As to who I am---” Then, suddenly, he barked a rusty laugh. “Oh, you think I might be a spy, preparing to betray my country.”

John just stared at him.

“Usually I hate irony, but that is rather delicious.” He stepped closer. “As to who I am and what I am doing up here, the name is Sherlock Holmes and I came up here for the quiet. The laboratory was too noisy.” He waved the hand again. “Too many idiots thinking.”

The name sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t imagine why. “Very well,” John said slowly. “So you work downstairs?” 

“After a fashion,” Holmes said.

And then John realised who this had to be. “You’re the---” He’d almost said ‘Freak’ which was the appellation tossed around in the staff room to describe the man who made a nuisance of himself in both the laboratory and the morgue with his indecent interest in dead bodies and esoteric experiments. The generally held opinion was that he had connections with someone powerful on the board. Or even in the government.

But looking at the thin face and the unique eyes glittering in the moonlight, it seemed cruel to say that. John did not let himself think about the fact that he found that face and those eyes rather more interesting than he should have. “You’re the gentleman who does the experiments and who…well, I am not quite sure what you do in the morgue, actually.”

Holmes almost smiled. “Gentleman? That’s the first time such a word has been applied to me. As it happens, mostly what I do in the morgue is help the hapless so-called detectives at Scotland Yard solve crimes.”

“Really? Well, that’s good, then.” It occurred to him to check the sky, but nothing was happening luckily. He had another thought. “What am I supposed to be looking forward to?” he asked, remembering what Holmes had first said.

Holmes wandered over and leant against the sandbags next to him. “Going off to war, of course. Well, to train to go off to war.”

“Not sure that ‘looking forward to it’ is exactly right, Holmes,” John said.

Holmes just flickered an amused look at him. But all he said was, “Sherlock, please.”

“Watson. John.” They shook hands and fell silent for a few moments, both scanning the night sky.

“I have a week left here,” John said finally.

“By coincidence, so do I,” Sherlock replied.

John glanced at him, trying to picture the man in a uniform, marching up and down a field in Kent training for battle. Couldn’t see it, actually. “Off to war?” he said anyway.

“In a manner of speaking.”

John raised his brows.

Sherlock sighed. “I will be doing some work for my brother. Would love to tell you what, but then I’d have to kill you.”

John decided that the nameless brother was probably the connection that everyone talked about. He had a pretty good idea what kind of work Sherlock would be doing, especially considering his earlier remark about ‘irony’.

So he changed the subject to Sherlock’s experiments and spent the rest of the night listening to an explanation of some chemical reaction to…well, he rather lost the plot fairly quickly, but it didn’t really matter. Just listening to the sound of that deep, almost musical, voice was pleasant.

And later, as they watched the bombs fall someplace else in London on this particular night, it was oddly comforting to have Sherlock at his shoulder.

*

They met every night for the rest of the week and talked about whatever struck their fancy. Only one topic was, by mutual and unspoken agreement, not allowed: what the future held for them both. 

One night they actually had to extinguish a small fire, which, for some reason, had them both giggling at the end, which John pointed out was highly improper. And then they both laughed again.

On the last night, as they stood there and without even thinking about it, John suddenly found himself pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s mouth. He drew back almost immediately, not knowing whether to be embarrassed or horrified. But then Sherlock was kissing him back and all thought fled.

For the rest of the night they watched the sky and shared kisses.

It was dawn as they prepared to leave the roof for the last time. Sherlock wrapped the ever-present coat around his lanky form and then paused. “When the war is over---” 

John thought it was dangerous to even think about that.

“What is the date today?” Sherlock asked suddenly.

“The fifth of April.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “Well, then, on the first April fifth after the war is over, will you meet me at the Criterion? Nine o’clock for dinner?”

It was ridiculous and absurd and possibly courting fate in a deadly way, but John nodded anyway. “Yes,” he said. “I will.”

Sherlock smiled just a bit. He bent slightly to give John one more kiss, before turning around and vanishing through the door.

John stood there for a moment, running his tongue across his lips, thinking he could still taste Sherlock there. 

It was time to go.

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: Flames in the Sky by Pierre Clostermann


End file.
